


Saving Preacher

by clgfanfic



Category: Alias Smith and Jones
Genre: Gen, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-28
Updated: 2012-10-28
Packaged: 2017-11-17 06:24:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/548572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clgfanfic/pseuds/clgfanfic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A missing scene from "Never trust an Honest Man"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Saving Preacher

**Author's Note:**

> Originally published in the zine Ride 'em Cowboy #3 and then later in Just You, Me and the Governor #23 under the pen name Lynn Gill.

          The two dust-covered outlaws sat, hidden among the rocks, the afternoon sun finally warming the stark desert landscape enough to make both men slightly uncomfortable.  Somewhere above them a hawk screeched as it circled, looking for a quick meal.

          Tom Logan tilted his head back just far enough to risk a quick glance at the sun.  "Must be gettin' on two o'clock," he announced.  Turning, he looked out over a short rock outcropping that crowded a steep rise.  Below them, a narrow trail wound its way through the desert and into the narrow canyon mouth where they waited.  In the near distance a plume of dust climbed lazily into the sky.

          Readying his rifle, Logan felt a tremor of excitement pass over him.  He glanced at his companion and frowned when he saw that the man was still fixated on his bottle.

          "Would you get rid of that stuff and come over here.  They're comin'."

          Preacher tossed away his now-empty bottle and rolled over to lie next to Logan.  The whinny of a horse announced the arrival of the men they had been waiting for.

          Logan made a face as he caught a good whiff of Preacher's breath.  "Did you have to finish the _whole_ bottle?"

          The older, dark-haired man nodded, then hefted his rifle into place.  "Yeah," he countered.  "That way I can convince myself I don't know what I'm doin'," he finished, glancing up at the clear blue sky above them.

          "You probably couldn't shoot and hit the ground you're standin' on either."

          Without looking at his partner, Preacher replied, "Drunk or sober, Logan, I never miss.  It's my one remaining virtue, such as it is."

          A line of riders rounded the trail and entered the narrow path that forced them to proceed single file.

          Logan shifted forward slightly.  "It's the two in the middle."

          Preacher squinted in the bright light, bringing the faces into focus.  "Yeah, it is. Do you know who they are?"

          "Nope."

          "Well, I do.  They're friends of mine."

          "Now, come on, Preacher," Logan growled, glancing sidelong at the older man. "Don't go messin' things up for me."

          "I'm tellin' you the truth," Preacher argued, panic filling the bottom of his belly.  "I used to ride with them."

          "Sure," the outlaw snorted.  "You were probably their spiritual advisor."

          "Logan, those two blessed boys have saved my life more than once.  We hit a train down Emoryville, posse shot the horse right out from under me.  Heyes, he came back and got me."

          Logan's eyes narrowed.  "Heyes?"

          "Heyes."

          "Hannibal Heyes?"

          "Hannibal Heyes."

          The man's eyes widened as realization hit.  "Preacher, he's got a ten thousand dollar reward on his head.  Come on, we gotta shoot together."

          Reaching out, Preacher grabbed Logan's rifle.  "I _can't_ do it."

          "Now, come on, Preacher," Logan countered, already coming up with ways he'd like to spend the reward.  "It's not two-fifty, it's ten thousand."

          "It's twenty thousand.  That's Kid Curry ridin' with him," Preacher said, pushing himself up.  "And they're still friends of mine," he said as he reached his feet.  "I don't need that kind of money."

          "They don't mean anything to me," Logan muttered, licking his lips.  "So, I'll just do it by myself."

          Preacher stood, watching Logan prepare to fire.  Looking out past the prone man, he knew Heyes and the Kid would enter Logan's range in seconds.  Drawing back his own rifle, Preacher slammed the back of the man's head with the butt.  The outlaw slumped forward, unconscious.

          Preacher squatted down, rifling Logan's pockets until he found the down payment for the ambush.  He pocketed the cash.  "Sorry to do it to you, Logan, but the Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away.  And what's good enough for Him is good enough for me."

          Moving to the edge of the rocks, he watched the scene play out below him, but it was a different time and place that he saw…

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          The water-stop just outside Emoryville was the perfect location for an ambush, and Hannibal Heyes was not a man to allow a good opportunity to pass them by.  He and the Kid led the rest of the Devil's Hole Gang closer to the stalled locomotive.  The engineer stood, watching the water flow into his tank.

          "Huh, excuse me," Heyes called up to interrupt.

          The man looked down, his eyes widening as he realized there was a gun trained on his chest.  "What's this?"

          "I think it's called a hold-up," the Kid offered.  "Where's the safe?"

          "Safe?" the man hedged.

          The Kid's pistol appeared almost magically in his hand.  "The s-a-f-e, safe."

          "C-c-car three," the conductor stammered, amazed that he was still alive.

          Heyes cordially tipped his hat to the man, then rode off to the car, the Kid trailing.

          Preacher smiled at the conductor.  "Not to worry, my good man, they'll be finished in no time."

          The conductor nodded nervously as he watched the two outlaw leaders reach the car.  Heyes knocked.  The door slid open, he and the Kid entering without opposition.

          Several minutes later the duo exited, a U.S. mail bag stuffed full of railroad cash.

          "Posse!" Wheat yelled from his position near the caboose.  "Posse comin'!"

          Heyes and the Kid quickly mounted, Curry slipping the handle of the mail bag over his saddle horn.

          "Come on!" Heyes called back to Preacher.

          The outlaw tipped his hat to the conductor and dropped down onto his horse, the impact making the animal grunt.  He pounded the gelding's side with his heels and the sturdy little buckskin bolted forward.  He closed in on Heyes and Curry as they followed Wheat, Kyle, and the others along the tracks.

          "Where'd they come from?" the Kid hollered loud enough for Preacher to hear.

          "Must've been waitin' for us!" Heyes replied.

          The first shots sounded and each man leaned further over his horse's withers, urging the animals faster.  Last in the pack, Preacher wasn't completely surprised when his buckskin squealed as a hind leg gave way.  Horse and rider fell heavily.

          Preacher scrambled away from the thrashing animal, his heart feeling like it had leaped into his throat.  The posse was bearing down on him, and they didn't look like they were in the mood to take prisoners.  Panic forcing his eyes wide, he looked back at the fleeing outlaws.  Then his jaw went slack.  Heyes was riding down on him, the Kid right behind him, firing over the posse's heads.

          Jerking his bay to a stop, Heyes extended his hand.  Without thinking, Preacher took it and bolted onto the back of the bay.  His fingers curling under the lip of the saddle seat, he held on tight as Heyes frantically reined the mare around and gave her a quick kick to the ribs.

          Gunfire followed them, but somehow they managed to reach the broken hills where the rest of the gang had already taken up positions behind trees and rocks.  They opened fire once the threesome reached cover and the posse entered their range.  The exchange was rapid and intense, the posse deciding that retreat was better than facing a hail of bullets that kept drawing closer and closer to their marks. What they'd heard about the Devil's Hole Gang was true.  They didn't kill, but they'd sure as hell put the fear of God into you.

          The posse broke off and headed back to the train.

          Heyes chuckled.  "Well, let's go see what we got."

          "Right behind ya, Heyes," the Kid grinned.

          "Thank you, boys," Preacher told the two men.

          Heyes smiled.  "Gotta keep our spiritual advisor alive," he said.  "It's the closest to God any of us will ever get."

          The others all laughed.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          Preacher blinked and shook himself out of the memory as Heyes and Curry made their escape.  A tall dark-haired man fired after them, then followed.  Given the direction they had fled in, he knew Heyes and the Kid were headed for trouble.  Without hesitation he turned and started down the backside of the gentle slope to his waiting horse.

          Climbing into the saddle, he reined the gelding around and kicked him to a hard gallop.  He jerked the animal to a stop not far away and slid off.  Scrambling up the side of another slope, he lay along the top of a short ridge.

          Below him Heyes led the way into a box canyon, the Kid on his heels.  There was no escape for them.  He heard the Kid comment, but the words were lost in the noise of frantic horses' hooves.  The pair pulled their horses around to try another trail.

          The dark-haired man rounded the trail bend.

          With certain knowledge, Preacher knew the man intended to kill Heyes and the Kid.  Not wanting to murder the stranger, he used the same tactic as the posse had in Emoryville – he shot the horse out from under the man.

          Man and horse fell.

          Heyes and Curry both looked up to see where the shot came from.

          "Heyes," Preachers said with a smile.

          "I see it, but I don't believe it," the dark-haired man said, a grin spreading across his face.

          The Kid smiled and chuckled.  "It's a miracle, ain't it?"

          "Howdy, Heyes.  Kid," he greeted, tipping back his hat.  "Bless you, boys."

          Heyes and Curry both let out a whoop as Preacher made his way down the side of the rocky slope to join them.  Heyes was off his horse first, reaching out to enthusiastically shake the older man's hand.

          "Ah, it's good to see you, Preacher."

          "I'd say so," the man teased, jerking his chin toward Quirt's unmoving body.

          The Kid stepped up, giving Preacher a clap on the shoulder.  "You always did have a certain way of showing up when we needed you most," he said with a grin.

          "Just returnin' the favor, Kid.  You and Heyes would've done the same if it was me."

          They walked over to Quirt and the dead horse, Heyes kneeling first and rolling the body over.  He looked up as the Kid squatted next to him.  "He's dead, Preacher. Neck's busted."

          With a heavy sigh, Preacher knelt down on the other side of the body.  "Well, I sure didn't mean to do that."

          The Kid reached out, resting a hand on Preacher's shoulder.  "Of course you didn't."

          Looking across to Heyes, Preacher asked, "His name wouldn't happen to be Quirt, would it?"

          Heyes and Curry nodded.

          "That's him," the Kid confirmed.

          "Our Lord moves in mysterious ways," Preacher told them.  "That's the fella who hired a friend of mine to kill you two."

          "Friend of yours?" Heyes asked.

          "Kind of a misguided friend," Preacher explained.  "But he'll be thinkin' a lot clearer from now on.  That is, if his head ain't stove in."

          "Why, what hit him?" Curry asked.

          Preacher grinned.  "Well, you might call it the left hand of God."  He reached and tapped Heyes' hand.  "I'll be seein' you boys."

          "We'll be seein' you, Preacher."

          He started after his horse, the Kid's voice following him.  "Thanks again."

          As he mounted he heard Curry say, "You know, Heyes, I get a feeling it's time for us to be moving on."

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          With a grin Preacher kicked his horse into a gallop.  With a wave he headed back to see if Logan was still alive.

          Climbing back up to the ambush spot, Preacher found Logan just starting to wake up.  He groaned loudly.  "Damn it, Preacher, why'd you have to go an' do that!"

          "Like I told you, they're friends of mine."

          "They're worth twenty thousand dollars!"

          Preacher sat down next to Logan, and pulling out his handkerchief, pressed it against the man's bleeding skull.  "Consider it divine intervention."

          "Like hell," Logan muttered, flinching away.  "Ouch!  That hurts!"

          Preacher shrugged.  "You ever thought about goin' straight, Logan?"

          The man glowered up at Preacher.  "You _are_ crazy."

          "Come on," Preacher said, helping Logan to his feet.  "Let's get back to town and I'll buy you a drink."

          Logan grabbed up his hat.  "Least you can do."

          "Amen, Logan, amen."

The End


End file.
